


The Years go by so Fast, Let's Hope the Next Beats the Last

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Stay Another Day [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Christmas, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Collection of Christmas stories from the Wait for Me Verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Magic and Getting Kicked Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan curls into Courfeyrac’s side against the chill that still lingers around him. The temperature’s dropped rapidly in the last day or so, from the relative mildness of the month as a whole. Though the walk wasn’t far his lack of a decent winter coat meant the cold bit through to his bones, and he’d only just taken off the jacket when he climbed under the covers of their bed.  
> The little flat smells of gingerbread, like Christmas. Courfeyrac has his tiny video Walkman perched on his knees, engrossed in the bright Christmassy film flickering across its screen.   
> The door slams, with a long drawn out ‘uuuughhh’ from Grantaire. Jehan looks round to find his roommate, arms crossed over his coat, a pout on his lips.  
> “Really, I come home from work and get this?”

Jehan curls into Courfeyrac’s side against the chill that still lingers around him. The temperature’s dropped rapidly in the last day or so, from the relative mildness of the month as a whole. Though the walk wasn’t far his lack of a decent winter coat meant the cold bit through to his bones, and he’d only just taken off the jacket when he climbed under the covers of their bed.  
The little flat smells of gingerbread, like Christmas. Courfeyrac has his tiny video Walkman perched on his knees, engrossed in the bright Christmassy film flickering across its screen.  
Courfeyrac had be surprised by their little studio, though Jehan’s not sure why. He’d masked it well, but there were still the little glances at the sofa bed, the outdated kitchen, the lack of any real decorations beside a string of paper chains made from flimsy wrapping paper.  
It’s homely to him, a set place to come back to day after day. But it’s not what’s usual, expected, from someone’s home. He knows that.  
Courfeyrac laughs again, leaning his cheek on the top of Jehan’s head, and Jehan can’t help but smile along with him. Courfeyrac’s laugh is infectious, and the frost in the air makes it feel more Christmassy. There’s a guilt to that, after winters spent on the streets.  
He leans up to press his lips to Courfeyrac’s cheek, slightly unsure of what it means. Then he kisses along to his lips, and Courfeyrac breaks into a smile.  
“We still haven’t talked…” He teases.  
“You still t’ink that matters?” Jehan leans back and raises an eyebrow, Courfeyrac shrugs.  
“Not anymore.”  
“Good.” He kisses him again, it’s softer than their previous hungry kisses with hands everywhere. It’s couple-y, warm and familiar. Courfeyrac’s warm hand is on his cheek.  
“How are you still cold?” He chuckles.  
The door slams, with a long drawn out ‘uuuughhh’ from Grantaire. Jehan looks round to find his roommate, arms crossed over his coat, a pout on his lips.  
“Really, I come home from work and get this?”  
“You usually work later.”  
“Boss came in to finish some t’ings and said he’d close up. Besides, couldn’t miss this sickening display.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of bitterness that says somewhere he’s nearly serious. Something’s happened, not bad enough to leave a visible sign but it’s lingering under the surface. “You made gingerbread.” He lifts one of the hand cut biscuits with one finger.  
“I bought a ready mix.”  
“Oh. You should have told me.” Grantaire smiles. He would have treated him, he knows, to spices and syrup. But Jehan can’t ask him to do that on their budget. Though to many, Grantaire’s the realist of their relationship, with his cynical comments and rolled eyes compared to Jehan’s ‘dreamer’ style, the reality is often different. Grantaire’s the one who always wants to make special occasions, who makes him his favourite meal on his birthday, who wanted to take him out for Valentines. He’s terrible at budgeting, even without his maths.  
“I t’ought you’d like the surprise.”  
“So what are you two doing back here?” He asks, shrugging off his coat and coming to sit on the end of the bed.  
“Because Marius is a wonderful friend who I forgot was coming round.” Courfeyrac informs him and Jehan snorts. Grantaire raises a questioning eyebrow. “He uses my flat for dates, because his is completely unpresentable.” He tuts. “He and Cosette are having their Christmas tonight. And I thought it was tomorrow. And he of course came early to set up when Jehan and I were… Not quite presentable.” Grantaire wrinkles his nose in a gesture of thanks for the information. “So we left him to it.”  
“Jehan didn’t tell you we only have one bed did he?”  
“Not exactly.” Courfeyrac admits. It’s a conversation he didn’t manage to broach during their walk home, but he could find no reason as to why Courfeyrac shouldn’t come round. Courfeyrac, to give him credit, didn’t ask questions as many would when brought to a tiny, sparse studio.  
Grantaire sighs dramatically, falling backwards into Jehan’s lap, hand to forehead.  
“I suppose I’ll have to see if Feuilly or Bahorel will take pity on me.” He looks up at them. “I’ll turn up and tell them I’m being cast out just so you can get laid.”  
“You’ve turned up with worse excuses.” Jehan ruffles his hair.  
“Oh how about that one time-“  
“We don’t need to hear about that.” Jehan taps his nose as Courfeyrac begins looking inquisitive. “Not right now. It’s not a story for Christmas.” Grantaire snorts, rolling off the bed.  
“I’ll leave you to make a more Christmassy story then. Maybe I’ll persuade someone to create some Christmas magic with me huh?”  
“We have an angel just for that.” Courfeyrac grins at him, in that teasing way he does. He’s serious too, just slightly, looking out for his friends.  
“Alas that particular angel is having a strop at me.” Grantaire tells him, grabbing a gingerbread man. Jehan watches him carefully, as he winds his scarf back around his neck, not commenting further until prompted.  
“Enjolras? Having a strop? Nooo.” The dripping sarcasm causes Jehan to hold back a laugh, pressing his lips together.  
“Stubborn isn’t he?” Grantaire remarks in the same tone, taking the head off the gingerbread man with a little more force than necessary. Courfeyrac chuckles.  
“Don’t let him get to you, it’s one of his best traits.” At this Grantaire snorts.  
“Well I’ll keep waiting. And leave you two to it.” Jehan hops up, the cold swirls around his legs as he takes the few steps over to him.  
“Sorry…”  
“It’s alright, so long as I get you to meself tomorrow night.” He smiles, kissing Jehan on the forehead.  
“It’s especially reserved.” Jehan promises, giving him another hug before he leaves. Then he turns back to Courfeyrac, who’s trying not to watch them closely. “We’re close.”  
“I noticed.”  
“Don’t be jealous.” Jehan teases, chucking him under the chin as he climbs back under the covers.  
“Why would I be jealous? We’re just fooling around. I don’t think I get the right to be jealous.”  
“You could be a little.” Jehan pouts. “Aren’t I worth a little jealousy?”  
“I think you’d be worth a lot more than that.” Courfeyrac tells him firmly, then pauses as he processes what he just said – cracks forming in the wall they’ve decided to build. “Everyone’s worth more than that.”  
Jehan smiles at him, cuddling back into his side.  
“Nice save there.”  
“Mm…” Courfeyrac chuckles, pressing the play button. A blast of Christmas music springs from the tinny speakers, the picture suddenly flickering back into life. They settle back against the sofa, Jehan’s head on Courfeyrac’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart mixing with overly happy voices and the sounds of traffic outside. 

~~

 

“Oi, open up arsehole it’s bloody cold out here!” Grantaire rapped against the door again. The lights are on upstairs, casting a muted square against the pavement. “I know you’re home!” His breath mists against the window, and he’s quite tempted to draw something on it’ surface, beneath the handmade wreath that Feuilly always makes from the holly he gets from the lady who works in the shelter. Something suitable rude he thinks, placing one fingertip flat on the surface.  
“If you do dat you just know Feuilly’ll kill ya.” He glances up, only slightly sheepishly, at Bahorel, standing with crossed arms and a wide grin that says he’d be doing exactly the same thing if it were him.  
“Then let me in.” Bahorel pretends to consider it for a moment, before Grantaire swears at him. Even then he only laughs as he undoes the locks.  
“Blimey it’s cold out there.” He rubs his arms as Grantaire slips in.  
“Why’d you t’ink I wanted to get in?” Grantaire mutters, rubbing his hands together in their fingerless gloves to try and get a bit more warmth into them.  
“Feuilly’s in the middle of a delicate process and couldn’t leave the hob.”  
“It’s the 23rd, how is he still on the jams?” It’s a yearly event for Feuilly. Around the first week you can find him carrying bags of various fruits, sometimes interspersed with the odd onion for chutney, bags straining as he heads home from the market – he insists on using the local businesses, being an owner himself. Then most evenings of the month are spent making some preserve or other. Chutneys first, giving them the time they need to mature ready for Christmas, filling the flat and shop with the smell of cooking apples and spices. Then come the jams, jars of the stuff lining his larder. He has a few set favourites, some that he knows people enjoy, or that the request, but each year he intersperses them with new flavours like chilli, rhubarb and ginger, or marmalades. He then proceeds to give them to his friends at the shelter, the shops he visits and has a rapport with, Grantaire and Jehan have received a couple before, though he usually provides them with a book Jehan’s been talking about, or new artist’s equipment. The money he saves on presents he donates, and uses some to buy basics for the people currently at the shelter.  
“He decided to try Lemon Curd this year, and it has a shorter date.” Bahorel explained. “He’s taking it round tomorrow he hopes.”  
“Better hurry.” Grantaire laughs as they head up the stairs, behind a semi-hidden door round the back of the counter. It always feels more like an attic this bit, a narrow wooden staircase with only a small window in the door above providing any natural light. Inside the flat is cosy, still retaining some of the features of its previous owner, much like the shop below. The sofa’s original, a lumpy old leather thing shiny with age. There’s a desk next to the door, the lounge area in the corner facing the street below. Several bookshelves, gradually becoming fuller again, line the wall behind the TV. Feuilly’s in the kitchen, just to the side of the box room Feuilly used to use. There’s Christmas music playing, and he hums along happily as he watches the ban marie.  
“You know a watch pot never boils.” Grantaire remarks as he enters, shrugging off his jacket for the second time in half an hour.  
“This particular pot better not boil.” Feuilly remarks, still deep in concentration, then glances up. “Grantaire! What’re you doing here?”  
“Jehan’s kicked me out!” He swoons for dramatic effect. “In favour of having a second one night stand with that Courfeyrac.”  
“You volunteered to leave then.”  
“You can still feel sorry for me.” Grantaire protests. “It’s almost Christmas.”  
“Only a little.” He looks back up from his mixing. “You need a bed then?”  
“It looks like you’ve already got someone.” He comments, nodding to Bahorel.  
“Then we can have a right guy’s night.” Bahorel grins right back.  
“Once Scottie over here finishes cooking.”  
“It’ll be a minute. At most.” Feuilly rolls his eyes. “And you already know where I keep everything.”  
“I’d take that as an invitation.” Grantaire opens up the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of Whiskey, because Feuilly didn’t need to be more Scottish, and some crisps and mince pies.  
He and Bahorel settle in the living room, making jokes about Grantaire’s predicament, until Feuilly joins them. Here he an almost forget the words from earlier, ones apologised for but that still stick like burrs to the back of his mind.  
Someway through the night Bahorel finds a Christmas tape, and refuses to let Feuilly near the player to turn down the volume. Most of the whiskey’s vanished, one of the mince pies is under the sofa, Grantaire thinks. They collapse over the sofa, Feuilly trying to disentangle himself from the pile with a protest that he actually has a bed. Bahorel just flops an arm over him, landing with a heavy ‘ooof’ and a ‘shut up and deal with it’ from the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this up last night, but was busier than expected! This takes place in the middle of Chapter 6


	2. Four Chances to get it Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas, though that doesn't change much for the pair of them.   
> Well, at least they have each other.

Jehan hadn’t realised how cold nights could get.   
People on the street keep going on about how mild it’s getting again, after the freezing fog that afflicted the capital in the middle of the month, forcing him and Grantaire to spend what little they’d saved on a B&B to avoid the sub-zero daily temperatures. But it’s not, not if you live in it, not if you have to lie out all night and most of the day that you can’t spend sneaking around department stores and shopping centres.   
He also hadn’t realised how damn quiet London would get on Christmas day. After a flurry of activity the evening before, that kept him awake for fear of someone seeing them as a target and because the loud groups only reminded him of what he didn’t have, everything had fallen a deathly silent he never expected from the city. Sure there were noises, cars rumbling by in the morning to get to family, the odd siren, but the overall effect was eerie.   
He curls up closer to Grantaire’s side, the other man still asleep somehow. There’s not much warmth to be shared but the presence helps.   
He hadn’t expected his first Christmas in England to be like this. Sure he was hardly expecting miracles, not even a tree or a roast but a roof over his head… Something to eat.   
He sniffs quietly, and Grantaire stirs beside him, like he has a sensor.   
“Jehan..?”   
“Nothing, just cold.” Grantaire tightens his arms again from where they’ve slackened in his sleep.   
“I’m sorry, I know this wasn’t what you were expecting.”  
“No, no it’s alright. We have each other. It could be worse.” Grantaire makes a small huffing noise but smiles, kissing his forehead.   
“What time is it?”  
“Big Ben chimed 9 not long ago.”  
“You want to move somewhere?” Jehan nods, stretching out his legs and arms to try and bring some life back into his frozen joints. They ache.   
They walk through to one of the parks, there’s no rhyme or reason other than getting moving. It’s pretty, with the lights, and it’s nice to find some green in the city. They stop to watch the ducks and a stray pelican, and other than the noise of the birds the place is silent.   
“Hey.” Grantaire nudges him, digging in his backpack. He produces a boxed sandwich, holding it out. “Merry Christmas.” Jehan laughs quietly as he takes it. It’s turkey and stuffing, and was technically best before yesterday, but it makes him smile.   
“What did you get this?” Jehan asks, as Grantaire produces one for himself.  
“Yesterday as the shops were closing. And a drink each.” He holds out the two bottles. “Merry Christmas, I know it’s not what we imagined…”  
“Well… We have each other.”

~~~

“Do you really have to work Christmas day?” Jehan asks, still sitting on the slightly too small double in their cheapest possible B&B room. Grantaire finishes buttoning his shirt, the only one he owns.   
“I have to, it’s extra pay. And I’ll be back later for the evening TV. It’s just lunch.”  
“Still… It’s Christmas.”  
“Well the other waiters have family they don’t see every day, or kids. I don’t have to worry about that. I thought it only fair.”  
“And what about me?” Jehan pretends to be offended. Grantaire laughs, sitting on the bed at his side.   
“Well I get to see you all the time. And you’re more understanding than a five year old.”   
“Says you.” Jehan teases. Grantaire kisses his forehead.   
“I won’t be long, you’ll see. And you know where to find me if you get bored.”

Jehan spends most of the day inside, mainly because he’s already freezing and it’s slightly warmer under his duvet and blanket mound. He does go out for a wander, in the afternoon when boredom gets the better of him. But then he has nowhere to go but back to their little room, and the rubbish Christmas TV that blares at him, flickering in the half light of the room.   
He must fall asleep, because he’s woken in the dark by Grantaire holding out something to him.  
“Merry Christmas.” He grins.   
“What on earth is it…” Jehan sits up, pushing his hair off of his face from where it’s been mussed.   
“I managed to scrounge Christmas leftovers. It’s not much, but it’s still warm. Budge over.” Jehan wiggles across so Grantaire can climb in next to him, still clothed. He flicks on the bedside light. “What’re we watching?”   
“You probably have more of an idea than me.” Jehan takes the offered cutlery. The plate’s between the two of them, mounded rather high with leftover turkey scraps and vegetables and slightly soggy roast potatoes. It smells divine.   
“I even got gravy and cranberry sauce.” Jehan grins at the scene, leaning across to give Grantaire a firm kiss on the lips.   
“Thank you. This is all I wanted.”

~~~

Jehan still can’t believe that they’re here.   
The house smells like roasting turkey and mulled wine. Feuilly passes across a bag of carrots to him to chop.   
“Sorry, it’s been a bit of a rush…” Feuilly smiles, he looks happy, though slightly hurried. Grantaire’s just finishing setting up the table across the room, grinning all the time. There’s a tape on in the background, Jehan’s been dancing around to it for most of the morning.   
“No, it’s no problem. You’re having us for dinner, it’s the least we can do to actually help.”   
“Still, I’m the host. I feel like I should’ve at least had the veg prepared…” Feuilly frowns at the variety of pans in front of him. “I feel like there’s something missing… It’s not the biggest spread.”  
“Feuilly. It’s fine. We’re just happy to be here. You’re giving us a proper Christmas.”   
“To be honest…” Feuilly sighs. “This is my first proper Christmas too. Especially with all the food and… People…” Grantaire glances up from where he’s placing a Christmas cracker.  
“Well then, we’d better make this one a right proper knees up.”  
“Of course.” Jehan grins, pointing a carrot at Feuilly. “We are going to have the best damn Christmas ever.” 

It might not be the best, the turkey’s slightly over done, the potatoes are burnt, and their presents mostly come from Feuilly’s shop. But it’s a very them Christmas. Grantaire draws, Jehan sits and writes carefree, nestled into his side. Feuilly patches up their clothes for them, holding the cloth up to the light to see better. The place is full of Christmas music, and they sip half cold mulled wine.   
At to be honest Jehan doesn’t care if it’s not perfect, because it’s he and Grantaire’s first decent Christmas here, together even. And he feels content, he thinks, with where they are. They might finally be getting there, at least he hopes so. 

~~~

Grantaire’s hands ball into fists as he stalks away from the shelter. Jehan hurries after him, reaching to carefully touch his shoulder.  
“Ciaran…”  
“Don’t! They’re a shelter they’re supposed to… Ruddy take us in. It’s freezing and just because we walk up holding hands they don’t-“ He looks like he might punch something, so Jehan takes his hands in his own.   
“We’ll manage.”   
“That’s not the point! It’s bloody Christmas. It’s supposed to be the season of good bloody will and they drop us out in sleet!”  
“Hey, hey… We don’t need that kind of grief right now.” Jehan reaches up to stroke his cheek. Grantaire looks more like he’s going to cry now, rather than being angry. Jehan’s thumb runs under his eye as Grantaire turns into his touch a little. “We don’t need them, we’ve made it this far and we can make it further. We survived an entire December out on the streets, we can get creative.”  
It’s only been a couple of months since Bahorel apologetically evicted them, embarking on a sobriety programme. He’d promised to help them if the needed anything but it doesn’t seem fair to go back while they have their own problems to deal with. They’d told him they’d be fine, that they’d find somewhere but so far they’ve managed a few days inside without any job nor prospects in sight. But they can’t admit that. They have to keep going, and he says as much to Grantaire.   
“I just wanted this to be good.” Grantaire tells him. “After last year, but we screwed everything up. The apartment, our jobs…”  
“We have each other.” Grantaire sighs, dropping his head onto Jehan’s shoulder, then planting a gentle kiss on his forehead, holding his face in his hands.   
“Next year. Next year will be better. I promise you. A room, not a shelter, and food that we’ve made not doled out by strangers. Maybe presents even. I’ll make it better. Just wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's not the happiest Christmas tale... But it's been going around in my head for a while and I thought I'd try and get it done for Christmas and I did!  
> Enjoy and a Merry Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Smith and Burrows, When the Thames Froze
> 
>  
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone! I might add to this later on


End file.
